A Hanging Jury
by Montressor-Purple
Summary: Jack appears before the court and one singularly unsympathetic juror. One-shot, written for the OC Challenge over at The Fireplace.


A/N: I have no idea what Jack's middle name is so I gave him one for fun. Call it creative license. My abridged version of Jack's criminal record was stolen (quite shamelessly) from Wikipedia. Also, thank you, thank you, thank you, to my wonderful beta, LovelyKat.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Story written for the OC Challenge down at the Fireplace.

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A Hanging Jury

Rheumatism. Not good for a man bordering on thirty. Walter reached down and caressed his calf. Sometimes he swore that the effort required to function properly the morning was enough to put a man right back in bed. Yes, mornings were already quite wearying when begun at the crack of dawn, and when begun several hours before daybreak, simply exhausting.

And all for a silly attendance on jury duty. Walter snorted derisively. If anything he'd heard about the defendant was true, the man was guiltier than the devil, himself. There was really no need to assemble a jury for such an obvious criminal, yet the good King's law required that the man receive a fair trial. Limping stiffly to the pantry, he continued his mental tirade. It was ridiculous, he decided. After all, several neighboring islands had ceased giving trials to convicted pirates; why did Port Royal insist upon flouting legal norms and giving trials to these undeserving lawbreakers? Yes, he concluded as he buttered a slice of bread, this trial was a clear waste of his time.

As Port Royal was rather small and Walter was rather poor, he did not own a horse. Consequently, Walter walked to the trial, the humidity wreaking horrors upon his best (and only) wig. By the time he arrived at the courthouse, he was tired, sore, irritable, disheveled, and well beyond the boundaries of "fashionably late". Under the disapproving glare of the judge, he took his seat on the end of the bench next to Oliver Perkins, the baker. "Waste of time, this is," Perkins muttered under his breath.

"Amen," Walter agreed. "Seems a shame to spend my morning proving the guilt of this scum. I, for one--" But his remark was cut off by another glare from the judge as the defendant was brought into the room.

_Really,_ thought Walter, _he could've tried to look presentable._ Indeed, the accused man looked every bit the pirate. A mass of black dreadlocks protruded from underneath a faded bandana, contrasting harshly with the pirate's grimy, white undershirt. "Five shilling says he'll be convicted within the hour," Walter hissed to Perkins as the pirate was pushed –not so gently- into a chair positioned at the center of the courtroom.

"Are you Jack Teague Sparrow?" began the judge. The pirate, Jack, leaned back in his chair and flashed an easy grin.

"Could be," he replied airily.

Walter shook his head. The fiend actually thought he was being clever.

"Jack Sparrow," the judge continued, his chagrin evident in his voice, "You appear before the court to answer for many accusations, the foremost of which include smuggling, forgery, sacking, sailing under false colors, freeing slaves, looting, poaching, brigandage, depravity, vandalism, impersonating officers of the British and Spanish Royal Navies, impersonating a cleric from the Church of England, arson, kidnapping, piracy, perjury, and theft. And for time's sake, we shall forget to include your numerous petty crimes. Have you anything to say in your defense?"

The pirate deliberated for a moment before offering, "I don't remember poaching. It's not in accordance with my ethics, see." The statement was followed by another of his toothy grins, as if he were challenging the room to disagree.

"Enough," interjected the judge. "Unless you have a legitimate defense, we will turn to the jury to make their decision."

Without waiting for an answer, he faced the jurors' box. "Gentlemen, I leave you to decide on this man's guilt." At his words, the jury stood and filed slowly out of the room into the smaller adjacent room set aside for deliberation.

"Seems to me a pretty straightforward conclusion," prompted a man named Bennie Flatts once the jury had assembled in the tiny room. "An obvious felon, the worst of his kind." The room nodded in agreement. "Does anyone present disagree, or can we convict the fellow and go back to our beds?"

As his fellow jurors each voted the pirate guilty, Walter felt a rare stab of conscience. It was a shame for any man, pirate or not, to die swinging from an unsympathetic piece of hemp in front of a jeering crowd. But when it came time for Walter to vote, his fleeting moment of pity was overpowered by rationality. The man was a pirate, for god's sake. "Guilty," Walter announced.

With their unanimous decision of Sparrow's guilt, the jury re-entered the courtroom, Walter limping behind the others. His sore leg was worse, leaving him feeling positively wretched. "Mr. Sparrow, the jury has reached a conclusion," the judge addressed the pirate. "We hereby find you guilty of," there was a pause as the judge scanned the list of Jack's numerous offenses. Deciding not to repeat them, he continued, "of the crimes for which you have been arrested. You are sentenced to hang by the neck until dead tomorrow at noon. This court is adjourned."

A rumble of feet and voices grew as the courtroom was slowly emptied. On his sluggish hobble towards the door, it became evident that one man had made no move to leave. Flanked by two guards, Jack sat immobile in his seat, head bowed to the floor. The mention of his hanging had induced a certain sense of reality in the pirate.

Watching him, Walter once again felt an unexplained surge of pity for the condemned man. He could only imagine what it must feel like to know that certain death awaited the next day. No, he did not envy the pirate at all. _Oh well,_ Walter thought as he dismissed the idea from his mind. After all, it wasn't his problem. He was going home to take a nap.

Something of an Epilogue 

Jack (as you may well know) escaped the noose the next afternoon with the help of the blacksmith, Will Turner, and lived a long and prosperous life. Walter, on the other hand, died the next week while choking on a chicken bone. The police speculated that he had tried to run to the doctor's office for help but with no horse and a sore leg he was unable to make it. The author (who felt terrible about adding unnecessary epilogues and author-insertions to a one-shot story in order to exceed the 1,000 word minimum) lived happily ever after, as well.

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A/N: Well, there it is. My first OC. I'm reasonably pleased with Walter. I hope you were, too. 


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